Captains log, star date three-eight-two-three,
point one. Our mission is to recalibrate a sensor array satellite located
close to the Neutral Zone; its strategic position makes it vital to Federation
security. Landing team effecting repairs. Kirk sat back in the big chair
looking at the screen of dead space in front of him anxiously waiting for
the technical engineers to finish their work on the array, so he could warp
out and find some action.

Transporter Chief, to Captain.

Go ahead.

Unable to establish transporter
lock on the landing team . . . a field of dillithium hydroxyl is enveloping
the array.

Science station; can you determine
the source of the dillithium hydroxyl field?

It does not appear to be naturally
occurring, Captain.

Kirk got a funny feeling something was
wrong. Yellow alert!

Captain; unable to establish communication
link with the landing party.

Kirk rubbed his chin and studied the screen.
Plasma radiation? Suddenly, as if it was a mirage, a Klingon Attack Ship materialized.
Red Alert! The incessant bleating of the siren was a cadence that
stirred the blood to a fever pitch; it brought clarity to thought and urgency
to movement. It was an unmistakable refrain heard only when life and death
were in weapons range of each other . . . everyone knew there would
be only one winner. Maximum power to the shields!

Direct hit to engineering section;
Hostile jettisoning warp core. The resulting explosion turned the bridge
on its side momentarily and then only partially righted. The crew swayed and
stumbled, but kept their posts manned.

As the Klingon ship erupted into a violent
fireball, their vessel was repulsed, sending the bridge crew crashing into
consoles and sprawling onto the deck. They quickly regained their positions
to assess their situation.

Captain; power curve from the explosion
has created a distortion wave . . . impact in twenty-six seconds.

Hull integrity cannot be maintained
without more power to the shields, Captain.

Kirk seemed to freeze for a moment, as
the eyes of his crew turned to him for direction. Then he decisively commanded,
Helm; modulate shields to conform to the field integrity of the distortion
wave.

Modulating shields, Captain.

Impact in three . . . two . . .
one . . . The crew were knocked off their feet, but scrambled back into
position.

Captain; hull stress approaching
critical.

Evacuate decks three through five
. . . life support shutdown in effect.

Zero power to the emitter array,
sir. Around them the structure began to buckle.

Zero power to shields, Captain.

Engineering; are there any remaining
power sources? Engineering? Engineering!

Captain; decks four through seven
have been exposed to space.

Captain; life support systems have
failed.

In a final act of defiance, Kirk kicked
the conn as he seethed at the onslaught of defeat. Computer; identify,
Mission Commander . . . begin Auto-Destruct sequence, One-One-A.

Captain; Auto-Destruct unavailable
. . . main computer is offline.

Captain; we are being boarded.

Just then the doors of the bridge opened
and an impeccably groomed lieutenant strode confidently onto the ravaged bridge.
The lights came up to full intensity, revealing a swirling haze of smoke and
dust, while the consoles continued to sizzle. The bridge crew put aside their
masks and breathed deeply as life support functions were restored. They regained
themselves and came to attention, as sweat poured down their faces.

Report! the lieutenant demanded.

Cadet Kirk in command of the simulator,
reporting one Klingon Attack Ship destroyed, one D-Five class Klingon Cruiser
on the brink of destruction and the other severely damaged, Lieutenant Finney,
sir.

Finney raised an eyebrow. To hear
you tell it this was a victory for your crew.

Your ship is in the hands of an
enemy that will be able to adapt all of our technology and use it against
us, which jeopardizes Federation lives throughout the quadrant . . . you have
broken the cardinal rule, Captain Kirk.

Yes, sir.

A captain that allows an enemy to
retrieve his vessel is nothing short of an incompetent coward, Finney
declared, unequivocally. Is that understood, Cadet Kirk?

Perfectly, sir.

You failed to use the remaining
power at your disposal to charge the main computer and initiate the auto destruct
sequence.

With all due respect, Lieutenant
Finney, sir, there was no power left; I used it all trying to defeat the enemy
and save the ship.

And yet accomplished neither task.

Yes, sir.

Finney walked over to the tactical station
and reached into the utility drawer; retrieving three phasers, he went to
the main power grid and opened an O.D.N. conduit. By draining the power
from these phasers, I can get the main computer online, so the Auto-Destruct
sequence can be initiated . . . Ill even have enough for a phaser blast,
as a parting shot so I can take a few more of those bastards with me . . .
Computer; tactical analysis of Hostile vessels.

Working . . .

Query; evaluate the effect on remaining
Hostile vessels if the Daedalus Class starship were to self destruct?

Hostiles would be destroyed, all
hands lost.

Finney fixed Kirk with a hard stare. Unlike
the Kobayashi Maru mission, there was a dozen ways to win this battle . .
. you failed to find even one.

Yes, sir.

Finney stood in front of the viewer and
folded his hands behind his back as he addressed the group. We fight
battles to end wars; the quest of The Federation is to win the peace and no
sacrifice is too great for that cause. If your destruction takes out three
enemy vessels, our enemies will be cautiousfewer battles fought; fewer
lives lost. If our enemies trade a bloody nose to bring home the carcass of
a starship and take the bridge officers hostage then enemy commanders get
hungry for glorymore battles fought; more lives lost. Is that understood?

The crew replied in chorus, Understood,
Lieutenant Finney, sir.

Finney marched over to Kirk and stood
directly in front of him to drive home his point. The art of command
is knowing how to use losses wisely so that no one need die unnecessarily
or in vain . . . you have squandered the lives of your crew and failed to
secure your ship; for that there can be no excuse.

I offer no excuses, Lieutenant Finney,
sir.

Finney turned away briskly and stood with
his back to the crew. I will expect your log entries by eighteen hundred
hours . . . Dismissed! As the tired crew shuffled away, Finney called
out, Cadet Kirk, you will remain behind at attention.

Aye-aye, sir. Kirk steeled
himself for the private dressing down he was about to take, knowing this reality
would not be as harsh as the simulated scenario he was facing as a slave in
a Klingon mining camp.

Once the crew had cleared the bridge,
Finney casually turned around and assumed a relaxed posture. Cadet Kirk,
I have just received word that I will be assigned to shuttlecraft duty at
The Axanar Peace Conference this summer.

Congratulations, sir. It is quite
an honor to be chosen for such a significant mission.

It is indeed . . . thats why
Id like for you to join me as my co-pilot.

Me, sir? Therere more qualified
cadets, even other officers that deserve this honor more than me.

Sir, my performance was unsatisfactory;
why would you select me for a mission of such galactic importance?

You made costly mistakes, so well
work on teaching you not to make those mistakes . . . but your instincts are
extraordinary; you fight like a tiger.

Thank you, sir.

At ease, Kirk . . . at ease.
Finney pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Kirk, who awkwardly
accepted. Finney lit their cigarettes and continued, Now tell me; just
how the hell did you think of modulating the shield frequency to conform to
the distortion waves configuration?

I . . . well, I dont know,
sir. I just saw it in my head and thought it would work.

Well, Kirk, thats one for
the books. As soon as I file my report on this engagement, every starship
captain will be briefed and the process will be fed into ships computers
to automatically make the adjustment. Thats the kind of thinking that
saves lives. You could even get a commendation.

Kirk blew out a puff of smoke and shook
his head as the gravity of his accomplishment sunk in. I dont
know what to say, sir.

Will you give some thought to my
offer?

I dont need time to think
about it, Lieutenant Finney; Ill be honored to accompany you on this
mission, sir.

This is no pleasure cruise. Whenever
people gather in the name of peace the enemies of peace make their presence
known; I want you to be on your toes and ready for anything, is that understood?

Perfectly, Lieutenant Finney, sir.

Very well, Cadet; youre dismissed.

Thank you, sir. I wont let
you down. They threw their cigarettes into a plasma disposal bin and
shook hands. Kirk, who had been dragging his tail a moment before, practically
bounded for the hatch.

Although he knew by the question that
he had, he couldnt think of what it could be. Im at a loss,
sir, he frankly admitted.

What happened to your landing team
aboard the array? Kirk felt humiliated that he had forgotten about the
lives represented on the array and stared ahead blankly in response. Finney
leveled him with a poignant look. Dismissed, Cadet.

Kirk left the simulator and headed for
his quarters feeling out of sorts. His elation over being selected to participate
in the proceedings at Axanar was tempered by his frustration at being negligent
in the simulated battle defeat. As he opened the door of his room, he was
jarred back to reality by a bucketful of water being dumped on his head. In
a moment a group of upperclassmen emerged from their hiding places to laugh
uproariously in his face, led by his cadet commander, Angus Finnegan.

Youre a real drip, Plebe Kirk.

Yes, Cadet Commander Finnegan.

Me buddies and me are bored; entertain
us with a little song and dance, Jimmy-boy.

Kirk swallowed hard to temper his answer.
I was just taking a moment to remember the words, Cadet Commander Finnegan.
Kirk slowly drew his breath and closed his eyes as he launched into the opening
. . . before he could sing the first line Finnegan interrupted.

Hold it there; lets turn this
into a bona fide production, with and all the trimmins! One of
Finnegans pals handed him a red, feathered boa, which he placed around
Kirks neck; another of his cohorts handed him a pink pillbox hat with
a veil that he plunked on Kirks head. Now ya look like a real
songbird. Okay, take it from the top . . . and ah one and ah two . . .

On the downbeat, Kirk braced himself and
began again, but Finnegan stopped him. Cut! I promised the lads a floorshow,
so lets see some dancin. Kirk began to sing the song he
had heard so many times while on the field and at pep rallies, and used some
of the steps he had glimpsed the cheerleaders doing, but Finnegan cut in.
Roll up them pantaloons and show us some leg, Jimmy-darlin; really
kick those gams in the air . . . more oomph! Finnegans mates laughed
and whistled, while Kirk plodded through the tune, half speaking the lines.
Alright now bring it home! Mechanically, Kirk complied and felt
relief as he went into the final stanza. Now for yer big finish, do
the splits. Without hesitation, Kirk dropped down and did the splits
. . . for the first time in his life. With a flourish, he raised his arms
and the peanut gallery cheered him. Kirk unsteadily rose to his feet, drained
from the effort it took not to dismantle his wiry tormentor. But to his dismay,
Finnegan called out, One more time, Jim-baby!

Knowing he was licked, Kirk performed
the number to specifications again . . . and when Finnegan and his crew called
out, Encore! Encore! he performed it yet again . . . and then
one final time for a command performance.

Kirk stood tensely at attention to control
his rage, while Finnegan pulled the boa from his neck and snatched the hat
off his head. Yer mission is to amuse and entertain me, so yad
better be polishin up yer act for next time . . . do ya read me?

Affirmative, Cadet Commander Finnegan.

Finnegan looked at the prom photo of Kirk
with his fiancée, Vera Sue, and razzed, I see ya got a picture
of yerself with yer prized hog at the fair; they wont be pinnin
any ribbons on that beast . . . I betcha she looks better after ya roll
her round in the mud some, dont she Kirko?

But since I can give ya demerits
and confine ya to quarters, yull be holdin that tongue, wont
ya? Ya Rigelian swamp weasel.

With both hands, Cadet Commander
Finnegan.

Im officially demoting ya
to the Dunzle of this class. Im goin to make it me business to
pin yer ears to yer backside every time Im feelin froggy!
Finnegan and his troupe marched out laughing and singing the Riverside High
fight song, and Kirk followed them into the hall for a last word.

One moment, if you please, Cadet
Commander Finnegan.

Finnegan stopped singing. Only one,
Plebe, so get to it.

I wanted to remind you to get out
to the baseball game a little earlier this week, so that you have a good seat
on the bench to watch me play your position. Finnegan glowered and Kirk
derisively grinned. Thatll be all, Cadet Commander Finnegan.

P I C A R D

Picard stood at attention in the antique
office, trying to casually take in the rich décor of leather, oak,
and Persian rugs, while The Superintendent sat behind his desk reviewing his
record with disdain. Most disquieting, Mister Picard . . . incomplete
assignments, tardiness, insolence, unexcused absences, a series of immature
exhibitions at the expense of fellow cadets practical jokes Im
sure you would call them. You have more demerits than any third year cadet,
even before this latest episode, and youre only finishing your freshman
campaign. The Superintendent rose and stood at his picture window with
his back to Picard. Whatever am I to do with such an unruly candidate,
who shows such little promise?

Picard cleared his throat purposefully.
Perhaps The Superintendent is unaware that I recently won my first wrestling
match; I pinned a Ligonian in just fourteen seconds. In fact I was the only
cadet that brought home a medal that day for The Academy, sir.

Perhaps the cadet is unaware that
being on the wrestling team is an extracurricular activity that does not factor
into his final grade, Bincour dispassionately informed. In fact,
grades and conduct such as his may warrant his removal from the team and eventually
The Academy.

Sir, I would like to have an opportunity
to defend my actions . . . there were unavoidable circumstances that kept
me from completing some of those assignments and from arriving punctually
at times or at all.

The Superintendent beheld him with a withering
glare. No doubt your dog ate your term paper in Astromatrix; you were
late to Dynamic Propulsion class because you stopped to fix a leaky nacelle
on a shuttlecraft for a little old lady; you missed your Archeology class,
because you had to rescue a child from a burning building.

Those are perhaps plausible reasons,
sir . . . and I have others to offer.

The Superintendent walked around and stood
behind Picard. While I am certain that I would find your explanations
entertaining and would undoubtedly be amused watching you expend your wits
concocting these hapless scenarios, I will save us both the time and effort
and list the reasons for your consistently inadequate output: A redheaded
Rigelian waitress named Myralla; a blonde Australian from the exchange named
Nell short for Quinella; a particularly statuesque Bajorin, whose name
you cant remember for the life of youits Uoltah, Juwine
in case you bump into her again . . . not to mention there have been quite
a few occasions where your trolling did not bear fruit, yet left you quite
indisposed, thus making class and assignments inconvenient. The Superintendent
stood eyeball to eyeball with the cadet and stared him down. Do you
have any other instances you would like to add?

The Superintendent began circling the
rigid cadet. Do you have any idea who I am?

Superintendent Tuvani Bincour, sir.

Is that the extent of your knowledge
of me?

Um . . . well, also you have been
The Superintendent at The Academy for seven years, sir.

Bincour chuckled at his expense. Here
you are this loafing hellion, who prides himself on being a scallywag, and
you didnt even take the time to find out all that you could about The
Superintendent of The Academy . . . you are a consistently shortsighted individual.
Bincour came around and stood nose-to-nose with Picard. Since we are
fated to have future dealings, let me tell you all that you need to know about
me; I am Betazoid . . . Yes you are right to think that. The Superintendent
strode again to the window and looked out on the campus, with his arms folded
behind his back. What is a cadets first duty?

Bincour faced him. Indeed you did
not . . . had I allowed you to spill out those ridiculous lies you were formulating,
I would be ordering you to pack your case and remove your presence from this
campus.

Picard mustered up an air of deep humility.
I am fortunate that you were able to save me from myself, sir.

The Superintendent sat down at his desk
to take a measure of the young man before him. Are you trying to get
kicked out of here, Cadet Picard?

Negative, sir.

You came to this institution with
Valedictorian credentials; I find your drop off alarming and insulting. You
act as if this institution is not worthy of your best efforts.

I plan to increase my efforts dramatically,
sir . . . honestly.

Bincour pensively pursed his lips. Though
I find it hard to believe that you will ever discover the disciplines needed
to graduate and become a Starfleet officer, I will not dismiss you at this
time . . . do not offer your gratitude to me; Boothby has decided to be your
benefactor, for reasons known only to him.

His support is a mystery to me as
well, sir.

The Superintendent began writing in Picards
personnel folder. I am placing you on probation until further notice
and I will be a strict monitor . . . your next false step may well be the
last one you take at this institution. Dismissed!

Aye, sir. Picard spun and
headed for the door as quickly as he could.

Bincour stood up behind his desk. And,
Picard . . . work on controlling your thoughts while in my presence. I particularly
do not appreciate that slur, since it reflects poorly on my parentage.

Very good, sir. Picard closed
the door and began walking away.

In a moment he heard The Superintendent
call out to him. That malediction is equally offensive to me!

Im working on it, sir.
Quickening his pace, he scooted down the hall then jogged down the steps of
the administration building holding his hands over his ears, to keep his thoughts
from transmitting.

After going a short distance, he was flanked
by two cadets one male, one female. The male spoke to him first. Well
you sure pulled off a whopper today; reprogramming the replicaters so all
the food tasted like gaagk and all the drinks tasted like Klingon warnog
that will go down as a classic.

People were doing spit takes like
they were in a Vaudeville review, the female remarked.

Well my trip to The Superintendents
office took the giggles right out of me, Im afraid.

I sure hope it wont be for
long; your pranks keep us in stitches, she enthused.

Yeah; you really break up the routine
around here, he heralded.

Picard stopped and positioned himself
across from them. Im afraid you two have me at a disadvantage.

Im Cortin Zweller, and this
is my sidekick, Marta Batanides.

Corey and Marti. She grinned
and shook Picards hand. Were big fans of yours; youve
really made quite a name for yourself as a prankster . . . among other things.

Yes, well, Ive just been put
on notice by The Superintendent that my humor is lost on him.

Zweller shook his head in disgust. It
should be illegal to have a Betazoid superintendent; a guy hasnt got
a fighting chance to get away with nothing, with one of them around.

Hey, Johnny, were going up
to the Pub Tent on Martian Colony-Three; why dont you come with us,
Marti invited. Itll be a blast.

Its a real bar; with real
booze none of that synthahol jazz.

Ah . . . no; Im not in a festive
mood. Besides, three is a crowd.

Zweller and Batanides looked each other
up and down and crinkled their noses demonstratively. Marti and me?
No, you got it all wrong; were strictly pals.

Nothing more . . . not ever,
Marti qualified.

Picard beheld the lovely ingénue
with the dark hair and sloe sultry eyes with renewed interest. Noticing his
amorous gaze, Zweller laughed. Forget it, Johnny. Juvenile delinquents
like us brings out the little mother in her; she likes her men tinplated and
noble . . . yuk.

Smiling warmly at Picard, Marti cooed,
Besides, I sit next to Shass Pelham in Matrometry class, so I know where
relationships with you begin and end.

Zweller whistled and raised his eyebrows.
Well if a barracuda like that cant hold his interest, hed
throw you back for sure, Marti.

Ill just stay off the hook
where its safe.

Zweller looked around with paranoia. Cmon,
lets get out of here; I think Bincour still can pick up our thought waves
even from here.

Picard sized up the two cadets who were
open and genuine. He hadnt made a lot of friends . . . in fact he had
met few people he hadnt rubbed the wrong way with his diffident persona
and was something of a loner in spite of his gregarious nature. He committed
petty pranks hoping to get some positive attention, but had only managed to
get a brass kicking. These two had a quality that put him at his ease and
he was drawn to be with them. All right then; off we go.

As they made their way across the campus,
Picard saw Boothby and scrunched down to avoid being noticed. Even though
Boothby had his back to him, he believed that the old codger knew he was there.

Zweller picked up on Picards body
language. Who are you ducking out on, Johnny?

Im trying to slip past that
old geezer, Boothby. Hes an odd sort, wouldnt you say?

I cant say; hes never
said a word to me . . . how about you, Marti?

Not really . . . I complimented
him once on the African Violets over by the bridle path and he just grunted
at me and warned me to keep my stubby hands off them.

I wish Id gotten away so easily;
he signed me up for archeology class and gave me an ancient book written in
Greek. Picard snorted. He even got me to run in the marathon .
. . I made sure I won it just to spite him.

Why didnt you tell him to
go stick his green thumb up his . . . nose? Zweller queried.

Ill be damned if I know .
. . I certainly had a mind to.

Marti shrugged sympathetically. Well
just humor him; hes just a harmless old guy.

You dont know the half of
it, Picard cryptically alluded.

Hey, Johnny; do you play dom-jot?
Zweller asked.

Picard thought for a moment. Dom-jot?
Ive never heard of it. 

Corey here is a grandmaster,
Marti attested. He can roll the terik into straight nines like nobodys
business.

I like cleaning out aliens with
superiority complexes, Zweller bragged. Sometimes it gets pretty
intense when they lose big and they may want to make something out of it.

Dont worry, mate; anyone who
wants to make trouble will find that Ill give them all they can handle
. . . and a spot more, Picard promised.

SHORTLY, they disembarked from the shuttle
transport on the colony and straightaway went to the bar. The crowd was made
up of a cross section of Federation citizens and Starfleet personnel. Since
gaining their independence from Earth in the early Twenty-Third Century, Mars
had become a favorite stomping ground for those who enjoyed seamier recreations.
Outside the Martian-Proper conurbation, with its resorts and attractions,
it was a rugged frontier complex where indulgences of pleasurable vices were
the order of the day.

They went to a table and pulled up a stool.
In a moment they were attended by an Andorian waiter. Name your poison.

Picard hesitated, with a slightly embarrassed
look on his face. Ah . . . what currency is required in this establishment?

Relax Johnny; its all taken
care of, Zweller expansively declared.

Yeah; Ive got an account here,
so order up and enjoy, Marti directed.

Corey only orders drinks that he
thinks John Wayne would approve of.

Is this Mister Wayne your mentor?
Picard inquired.

Zwellers jaw dropped. Youre
putting me on?

Putting you on what? Piccard
puzzled.

Ill fill you in later, pal
. . .

Marti slid a jar containing long multi-colored
sticks across the table to Picard. Here, Johnny, try one of these; theyre
suck-salt. Marti put one in her mouth and rolled it against her tongue
with relish.

Piccard cautiously took one and held it
to his lips. Careful, Johnny; those things pack a wallop, Zweller
warned.

Marti took a long draw on her stick. John
Wayne would have liked them.

Picard put the stick into his mouth and
immediately gagged. Thats disgusting! he critiqued, as he
wiped his tongue with his a napkin.

Oh everyone has that reaction to
them at first; theyre an acquired taste, Marti admitted.

Thats even worse than the
cigarette my brother, Robaire, and I once smoked in our youth, Picard
recalled.

The drinks arrived and Zweller held his
glass up to make a toast, Ex Astris Liquitis! He then knocked
it back in a gulp.

Picard took a slug to wash away the taste
of the suck-salt. First rate, he marveled then finished off the
drink.

Marti took a sip off her drink through
a straw and brightened. Titillating.

Steady, cowboy, Zweller mocked.

Picards eyes had adjusted in the
opaque ambiance enough for him to take in the surroundings. At different tables
there were patrons gambling on various games of chance. In the dark corners
there were cozy booths where couples nuzzled. If they took a liking to each
other there were rooms available on a lower level. He had spent more time
in salons than saloons, so he was intrigued by the rollicking atmosphere.

The center of activity surrounded the
dom-jot table, where a raucous crowd gathered to watch the participants; there
were groans and cheers after every shot according to popular allegiance. The
game originated on Inzer-Twelve in the Vegan System, and appeared to have
some elements of Terran billiards, but with its own unique strategies and
objectives.

There was prolonged fanfare at the dom-jot
table, indicating that the game had ended. A comparatively small group congratulated
a Chalnoth warrior on his victory. Zweller jumped up. Thats my
cue.

Marti picked up her drink. Lets
go getem.

Picard fell in. Lead the way.

As they made their way to the dom-jot
table, Marti collided with a humanoid behemoth and their drinks splattered.
The male did not seem to consider that she was a female about a third of his
size and that he had initiated the contact, as he yelled, Are you seeking
to humiliate me by spilling liquid on my clothes so I look like a baby?

Before Marti could speak up, Picard stepped
in. It was an accident, sir; she meant no insult.

There are no accidents, Terran;
you insult me with your deceit!

As the man crowded him, Picard remembered
The Superintendents admonition for him to stay out of trouble, so he
suppressed his inclination to agitate this boorish bulwark into a confrontation.
I assure you that she had no intention of demeaning you, sir; in fact
Ill get you another drink.

Youre going to get me a drink;
are you trying to engage me in a mating ritual, Earthling?

All around those who were listening laughed
aloud, and others stopped what they were doing to view the spectacle. It appeared
that the policy of the tavern was to allow the patrons to resolve their issues
in a manner of their choosing. Though his short fuse had been lit, Picard
continued to outwardly react with aplomb. It is obvious we cannot resolve
this situation satisfactorily, so please accept our apologies and we will
simply avoid having any future encounters.

The churlish man hissed, You look
like a human, but you talk like a Mizarian.

The onlookers sought to exacerbate the
encounter with their laughter and taunts. After being called something less
than a man and now a coward, Picard felt he had used all the restraint in
his arsenal and was about to demonstrate his ability to level an opponent
who was twice his mass, when Marti suddenly joined the fray.

Your actions are unworthy of your
species; you have disgraced yourself with your rude behavior and now you are
trying to hide your shame by starting a fight . . . so come on and challenge
me, if you think you have to defend your honor.

Inexplicably, brutes enraged features
softened and became radiant. In a charming voice he said to her, I have
made an error concerning your intentions; I now realize that you were not
trying to insult me.

Marti was equally charismatic. And
I understand that you were only protecting your honor as it is you right to
do.

The man reached out and gently took her
tiny hands into his large webbed appendages. I am Varnyk; come join
me in my booth so we can share a bottle of noltgarin from my home world.

I am Batanides; show me to your
booth and I will drink noltgarin with you. As they left, Marti turned
around and shot a wink back at Zweller and Picard.

Picard was incensed. What just happened
here?

That guys a Zaldan you
can tell by the webbed fingers.

What does that mean?

They hate niceties; they think its
phony. So she told him what he wanted to hear and now everything is Kosher.

Picard looked over at Marti and Varnyk
getting comfortable in the booth. Why did she go off with him?

I dont know if shes
trying to keep him cool or shes warm for his form, but either way, shes
okay . . . Marti can handle herself in any situation, Zweller praised.

Picard was not appeased. She didnt
need to come to my aid; I was perfectly capable of dispatching that lout.

Zweller led Picard to the dom-jot table
where the group of Chalnaths were waiting for him to take on their champion.
Well, Johnny, there are still plenty of louts left around here. After
Im through trouncing this dude in dom-jot, you may yet get to dispatch
one or two.

Acknowledged; C.M.O. Quaice out.
As Quaice left the solitude of his quarters and hustled down the hallway he
hit his combadge. Amber Team to sickbay, stat; Code-Four medical emergency.

As Quaice entered the trauma room an unconscious
female cadet was materializing on a biobed. His Chief Resident, Doctor Beverly
Crusher, was standing by and began ministering to the battered and bloody
woman, while assessing her condition. Patients vitals are unstable,
Doctor Quaice. Crusher applied neural calipers. Inter cranial
bleed from a fractured skull, internal bleeding from broken ribs on both sides.

Two non critical injuries
several fractures along the maxilla and a sublaxation of the humerus from
the glenoid, Nurse Krylak added.

Also known as a broken jaw and a
dislocated shoulder, Quaice clarified.

Crusher looked up and returned the beaming
smile of her mentor, Doctor Dalen Quaice. Shes going to be all
right.

I never had any doubt, Quaice
commended.

Crusher stared down at the sturdy young
woman. If medical treatment had been delayed even a few more minutes
. . .

The patient would certainly be dead,
Krylak appraised, leaving the team speechless at the cold logic of the lanky
Vulcan.

With the patient out of danger, Quaice
took his med student, Sarah Kingsley, by the hand. All right, lets
get your feet wet, young woman. Take the protoplaser and adjust it to the
diameter of the wound on the liver . . . not too much volume, or it will degenerate;
just enough so the tissues coalesce. Excellent; you have the touch.

Now, Miss Kingsley, take the osteogenic
stimulator and lets do some mending . . . watch the screen, so you dont
fuse the bones . . . scale back the pressure, so that the ribs dont
superficially regenerate, or they wont hold. Excellent; you were born
for this. Now, administer gammahydroxin to the abdomen to clean up the bone
fragments. Or, if you prefer, Doctor Crusher, we could cut her open with a
scalpel and pick the pieces out with tweezers.

In spite of the tense situation, Crusher
replied whimsically, Lets see if the gammahydroxin does the trick; if
not Ill go to the medical museum and fetch a cutdown tray.

Isotopic ratios are one to one,
Doctor, Kingsley informed.

Okay, its all over but for
the shooting, Quaice declared. Youll run the osteogenic
stimulator over her jaw, in a few minutes . . . we dont want to risk
sending her into shock by doing another cranial procedure before her chemical
neutrons are level.

What about her dislocated shoulder?
Crusher inquired.

Doctor Quaice shot a frustrated look at
the patient. Maybe we can get some sense through this thick skull of
hers, by giving her a painful reminder of her ordeal. You will manually rotate
her arm back into its socket and place it in a sling.

Crusher was incredulous. Isnt
that a violation of the Hippocratic oath?

We are doing no harm by applying
an approved, time-honored method of treatment, Quaice dictated.

Crusher demurred. Understood, Doctor.

Fixing Crusher with a scholarly gaze,
Quaice mused, I assume that the granddaughter of Felisa Howard is well-versed
in the classic procedure to attach a dislocated shoulder . . . probably more
so than I.

Under my nanas tutelage, I
learned many age old treatments of injuries and ailments, Crusher assured.
I can even cure the common cold if anyone ever got one again.

Medical science has wiped out a
lot of medical practices, but its good to know the basics in case youre
cutoff from medical science and need to heal your patient, Quaice stated
for the medical team.

Crusher looked at the cadet with compassion.
What do you think happened to her, Doctor Quaice?

Well since she was transported from
Post Thirty-Six, Im certain that her injuries were sustained on the
athletic compound. Quaice lifted her eyelids and shined his penlight
in them. The only sport that racks up these kinds of injuries is Parrise
Squares; the most violent blood sport since the gladiatorial arena . . . except
for a Klingon batleth tournament.

If its that barbaric, why
dont they outlaw it? Crusher asked.

Because of us, Quaice confessed.
From Hippocrates to you and me, the medical profession has been toiling
to save fools from themselves. With each breakthrough in medical science,
mankind gets a little more reckless, because we can pick up the pieces. Doctor
Leonard McCoy dubbed it: Humpty Dumpty Syndrome. People have become
so arrogant that they believe there is no calamity they cannot be saved from,
so they push beyond the envelope to feel the rush of immortality.

Crusher read the neurographic scan, She
really went through Hell.

Worse; shes been through a
Parrise Squares match . . . though Ive never seen a case where a woman
was so badly beaten.

Weve come a long way baby,
Crusher chortled.

All right, Miss Kingsley, were
ready to address the fractures along the jaw line . . . deal with each area
individually rather than running it across . . . use a circular motion . .
. thats right . . . you can see it reshaping as the swelling goes down;
thats how you know your doing it right. Excellent. We have a promising
student here, Doctor Crusher.

I concur, Doctor Quaice.

Quaice headed for the door and paternally
looked back at the cadet whose life had hung in the balance only minutes before.
Doctor Crusher, you can tell this waif that next time shell get
nothing more than adhesive tape, aspirin and an icepack from my sickbay.

Very good, Doctor Quaice.

Now, if youll excuse me, I
have some reading to catch up on.

As Quaice headed out of the trauma room,
Crusher followed. Once they were outside, she called out to him. One
moment, Doctor. Quaice stopped and Crusher leaned in close so that no
one else could hear. Youve been locked away and unapproachable
since we left Delos-Four and Im worried about you, Dalen.

You neednt be, Beverly. Im
just out of sorts without Patricia around.

Well shell be here before
long, youll see . . . and if youre down in the dumps when she
gets here, shes going to hold me personally responsible, so from now
on youre officially under my care.

And what is your prescription for
a case of the blues, Doc?

A galactic feast.

With universal beverages.

Well start with crab puffs.

And I shall mix a pitcher of martinis
so dry it might die of thirst.

For the main course well have
roast teracaq on angel hair pasta, served with a side dish of tartoc.

And I have a bottle of Enolian spice
wine stashed away that will wash it all down nicely.

And for desert, utaberry crepes,
served on French vanilla ice-cream.

Then after dinner we shall test
our skills as chemists by attempting to create a Tzartak aperitif.

And when we are full and whoozy,
will we miss our loved ones any less?

Of course not . . . but we will
enjoy the evening more.

You are able to look forward to
the day Jack returns; I have no idea if Patricia and I will ever be together
again.

Yes you do . . . this isnt
the end; its a bump in the road, Crusher soothed. She didnt
want to leave Kenda-Two and go to Delos-Four, but she did. Shell join
you here before long. I know true love when I see it.

Well when your patient comes to,
you might inquire if she wants to join our lonely hearts club . . . Lord knows
her sense of loss is far greater than ours.

What do you mean?

I didnt recognize her till
the swelling on her face went down, but thats Ed Janeways daughter
. . . Kate, I believe. Its been barely a year since his death, so she
must still have an open wound.

Ill talk to her and see if
we can be of any help.

And I shall ready myself for the
festivities by loosening up with some Saurian brandy . . . perhaps a carafe
full.

Crusher watched the great man walk down
the hall visibly carrying his burden. Her own sense of loneliness made her
keenly aware of the emptiness he felt. Trying to forge a nuclear family in
this day and age, where in a moment you were separated by light years from
your mate, was seemingly foolhardy yet the human spirit still needed to bond
in love to feel complete. The great distances separating two hearts in love
has always given poetry its epic verve; the dramatic references to the moon
and stars and the Milky Way, so overused by earthbound poets of bygone eras,
gained relevant potency in the galactic milieu.

As Crusher returned to the trauma room,
she noticed her patient had begun to stir back to consciousness with a groan.
She tried to rise, but was knocked back by a wave of pain. Crusher complied
with Doctor Quaices course of treatment and let the cadet grapple with
her discomfort for a moment before administering a dose of hydrazine for her
dizziness. All right, Cadet; I need you to brace yourself; Im
going to rotate your shoulder back into its socket.

Youre going to do what?

Doctor Quaice has ordered that your
injury be treated conventionally. So, allow yourself to relax . . . youre
in capable hands. Crusher took hold of the limb and, in two quick motions,
shoved the appendage back into place. Janeway screamed and writhed momentarily,
before Crusher gave her a shot for the pain.

Looking at her tattered and bloodstained
jumpsuit made Janeway shudder as she recalled her final harrowing moments
of consciousness. All things considered, I guess Im not so bad
off.

It seems that you were severely
beaten in a game of Parrise Squares . . . although injuries like that can
hardly be thought of as part of a game.

I think of it as a ruthless contest
without mercy.

Crusher helped Janeway situate her arm
in the old fashioned sling. Youll have to wear this until further
notice; youve been signed into rehabilitation and placed on modified
duty.

I believe part of Doctor Quaices
treatment plan is to slow you down and keep you out of harms way for
awhile . . . perhaps you should enjoy the break.

Janeways jaw flexed with frustration.
Perhaps I should . . . but I wont.

Crusher ran the mediscan over Janeway,
just to be thorough. So, did you get the number of the truck that hit
you?

Actually, he had my number.

He? Why were you competing against
a man?

Its all part of my master
plan to become the first woman to make the varsity squad . . . someday. I
issued the challenge to the cadet on the team nearest my weight class and
we fought for the spot . . . Im sure you can guess the outcome.

Crusher began slowly moving her finger
from side to side, to test the cadets ocular responses. Whats
wrong with competing for a spot on the womens team?

There are no men on it.

Crusher gave Janeway the once over with
her tricorder to make sure nothing had escaped her attention. I dont
understand.

Join the club.

I have to file a report about this
incident for my C.M.O.; it would help if I had some background.

Ive been chosen to try and
make waves at The Academy for women. No woman has ever been offered an application
for Team Avenger by The Commandant and the best way to get the necessary recognition
is to make the Parrise Squares varsity squad, which is something else no woman
has ever accomplished . . . and here I am.

What made you decide to take on
such a dangerous program?

The groundskeeper . . . an ancient
gent named Boothby.

The groundskeeper put you up to
this? How did he do that?

Hes quite a persistent fellow
when hes strongly motivated . . . actually, the more I worked with my
trainer the more I began to embrace the challenge.

Did your trainer really think you
were ready to challenge one of the male varsity players?

He knew Id be soundly defeated,
but that Id get a reputation as being fearless . . . or nuts. He instructed
me to take as much of a pounding as I could before they had to beam me out
of there and save my life. Janeway slowly got off the biobed and tested
her legs before putting her weight on them. It was even more horrible
than I thought it would be.

How did you get so many injuries;
did he continue beating you after you were down?

No. He continued beating me every
time I got back up.

And youre really going back
for more.

You better believe it, sister.
Janeway waited for her equilibrium to balance her. Just as soon as the
warden takes my arm out of jail.

Well I congratulate you for having
the courage to be a pioneer, but you have to realize how dangerous this sport
is. I know youre feeling okay now, but a half-an-hour ago . . .

I know . . . I was there. But Ill
live to fight on thanks to you, Doctor . . .

Crusher, Beverly Crusher.

Thanks, Doctor Crusher.

Well if youre going to continue
your career in Parrise Squares, were going to see a lot of each other,
so you may as well call me Beverly.

Its good he had a lot of friends;
I hope it made up for not having much of a family life.

Im terribly sorry for your
loss.

So was I . . . a long time ago.

But your father only died a year
or so ago.

Well he was long gone before then.
I grew up on my grandpas farm, while he patrolled the galaxy and my
mother cruised the solar system.

My mother and father died when I
was very young. I was raised by my nana on Arvada-Three.

Arvada-Three? Its amazing
anyone survived on that colony after the eco disaster.

Nana had no formal medical training,
but taught herself to be a healer using roots and herbs. She taught me as
she learned, and I began assisting her when I was still a kid.

My grandpa taught me how to hunt
and fish. Wed go camping in the hills for days on end. He was quite
a man.

So was your father by all accounts.

Thats what Ive read
and heard.

Surely you must have many memories
of him.

Mostly of missing him. Thats
why its hardly different now when I think about him, except for the
tragedy of his death.

My husband is serving aboard the
Stargazer, so he is gone for long periods of time on deep space missions.

Whens the last time you saw
him?

By the time they come back to Alpha
Quadrant next fall it will have been almost two years.

It must be difficult to maintain
a marriage at that distance.

If not for love it would be impossible.

Any children?

A son, Wesley. Hes four now.
Hes only seen his dad a couple of times.

Its always toughest on the
children of Starfleet officers, Janeway related. They never understand
why their parents arent around; it makes them feel like they arent
loved enough. I hope it works out for your little guy.

Thats partly why Im
here at Starfleet Medical. When Jack gets back hes going to teach Paratactics
at The Academy, so we can settle down and build a family.

My dad could never accept a ground
assignment, the lure of adventure would always beckon him to the next post.
He would say he was coming back and Id make plans, but some assignment
or crisis would manage to take precedence over me.

Im sure he didnt see
it that way.

He wasnt the one sitting at
home blowing up balloons and writing Welcome Home signs.
Janeway reached out and shook Crushers hand then started for the door.
Anyway, I appreciate you taking the time.

Just one more thing, Kate. Doctor
Quaice wanted to know if you wished to join us for supper this evening; were
just settling in and wed enjoy the company.

Janeway smiled pleasantly. Thanks,
Beverly. Id love to take a rain check, if you dont mind. You see,
Im due over at The Launching Pad; after taking a beating like this,
you have to stand the team to rounds of drinks and listen to them laugh at
you for getting pulverized . . . tradition is tradition.

Rain check it is; we eat supper
every evening. As Janeway turned to leave, Crusher stopped her. Kate,
just a moment. I want you to know that your injuries were very severe, life
threatening in fact.

Yeah I thought I heard a few dead
relatives calling my name as I lost consciousness.

All kidding aside; please be careful.
And dont be afraid to admit that youre in over your head.

My dad always said, If youre
in over your head then you have to go deeper . . . of course considering
he drowned I guess his advice should be taken with a grain of salt.